


Pack Memory

by Quarra, xantissa



Series: No Wolves Allowed [16]
Category: Castlevania Lords of Shadow と 宿命の魔鏡 | Castlevania: Lords of Shadow & Mirror of Fate, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Torture, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26548168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quarra/pseuds/Quarra, https://archiveofourown.org/users/xantissa/pseuds/xantissa
Summary: Geralt hasn’t had the easiest time of things, and his unpleasant memories come back to bite him. Viciously. Dracula and Alucard are there to help.
Relationships: Gabriel Belmont | Dracula/Trevor Belmont | Alucard/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Series: No Wolves Allowed [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1195675
Comments: 19
Kudos: 158





	Pack Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Notes from Quarra: Weeeeeeeeeeeee here we are for another installment! I'm still slowly working through editing, and there is still a lot more fic yet to come, both shorter ones like this and a few longer fics too. We had a little Eskel feels before, so now it's time to check up on Geralt!!
> 
> Thank you thank you thank you to [Dira Sudis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsudis/pseuds/Dira%20Sudis) for beta reading this!! Your continued interest in the series brings me great joy and always encourages me to continue on.

Geralt panted heavily, his face lolling off to the side on the hard wooden table. The pain was a distant thing. He knew that his body was wracked with it, so many types and intensities that it had long faded into a buzzing in his brain. He should be feeling more of the agony. Maybe he was finally starting to drift away.

The stench of blood filled up his nose, and under that he could smell the hot brands nearby. They’d only given him a few small burns so far. They were letting the iron heat up. Waiting for the right moment. Those pokers would get red hot before they decided to start in on that, but until then he got to watch them heat in the fireplace that was off to the side of the room. They kept it blazing. 

Far more often than was probably needed, one of the guards would walk by and toss another fresh branch on the flames. It stank of sap. Green wood burning. His nose was already filled with the stench of his own burning skin, the foul miasma of skin cells and fat melting and sticking to the hot iron.

They’d already taken all of his nails. There had been the standard beatings that went with it too; that was nearly expected as a matter of course. They’d also had some fun with finger breakers, busting each bone individually before moving on to the next. It would be at least a couple weeks before Geralt would be able to hold a sword, even with his advanced healing. If he’d been a normal human, he would probably be crippled for life. 

The idea of being unable to hold a sword made sour bile rise up in his mouth, choking him on the acid. What good was a witcher that couldn't hold a sword? Nothing. Better dead than that. Better to slit his throat than starve slowly somewhere on the side of the road, begging for scraps. 

He’d been stretched in between the other tortures, pulled on the rack until his joints screamed in agony. Even that was nothing more than a dull ache now. 

It should hurt more. A lot more. He was disassociating. Had to be. That happened after a while, he knew from _experience_. 

The pain, the sickening thundering of his heart, and the sourness in his mouth wasn’t really the worst of it. They hadn’t gotten to the truly terrible stuff yet, the things that would kill him. These first couple of days were just warmups, really. 

No, the worst part was knowing while he lay there getting cut up, Ciri and Yen were out there being hounded by the inquisitor’s troops. He had to go to them. Had to do something. Ciri was so small still, just started her training. So easy to kill, so damn easy to just snap her neck. Hell, one strong blow would probably cave in her little chest. 

Geralt needed to be there. He needed to make sure that she was safe, that she could survive.

But he was bound, helpless, staring at a slow painful death marching down on him. All he could do was thrash in the metal shackles, useless and terrified, as his bonds cut through his skin and muscle, slicking his wrists and ankles with blood, and filling the room with the scent of even more iron. 

He wouldn’t be able to get out. 

His throat was dry, dry as death itself. Grime and blood covered him, adding another layer of disgust to the whole experience. His skin itched with it, and the smell of old blood mingled with the burning of the fire. There was something else in the air too, something cold. It slipped through his consciousness, and Geralt wondered if it was even real. 

“Oy, there,” a raspy voice said next to him. 

The inquisitor’s helper. Apprentice maybe. A random sadist. Hard to tell. It didn’t matter; all that would be different was the creativity of the torture. Either way, they would make him scream.

“Wake up.” 

A hand slapped him in the face. All he felt was numbness, and the distant knowledge that this was just one more hurt added up with the rest.

“I said _wake up_ ya dumb git!” Another slap. “We got the pokers ready now, and bossman has a few more questions for you. Questions about your pretty daughter.” 

It was hard to open his eyes; they felt swelled shut, sticky and dry. There was hair in his eyes. He wished he could push it away, but his hands were pinned. Bound. _Useless_.

Another slap, and then another and another. There was blood pouring down from his face now, hot and wet, and he didn’t even have the strength to moan.

A dark shadow fell over him; the head inquisitor. He was smiling. He had to be smiling, Geralt was sure, but he couldn’t quite see it. All his weak eyes could focus on was the glowing red of that hot poker getting closer and closer, flickering between the blows that knocked his head back and forth. 

The moment it touched his stomach, he lunged forward up off the table. Whatever manacles or cuffs they had him in couldn’t hold against the sudden movement, and before he was even really aware of it he was free to move.

Without conscious thought, energy flowed out of him and around him as he cast Aard. It was base reflex, a century’s worth of ingrained instinct to blast everything around him back with as much force as he could muster. His eyes were gummy and there was blood and sweat stinging at them. It made the room look hazy, and he couldn’t quite see all of what was fluttering around him. Something shadowy moved outward with the force of his Aard, fluttery and unfocused.

“Geralt!”

He staggered back, shaking his head, and cast Quen on himself. 

The inquisitors had stripped him of his armor and clothes, leaving his bruised, raw body naked in the dim light. His Quen would be all the protection he could hope for. He _ached_ for a weapon, but there was nothing. 

But Geralt was a witcher, and even naked, battered, and half delirious with pain, he was still formidable. 

He cast Axii this time, hoping to stun at least one of the two torturers in the room. Eskel was powerful enough he could force others to fight for him, but the best Geralt could usually hope for was a brief reprieve, a few precious moments of disorientation. 

One of the two staggered in place, and Geralt focused himself, drawing up power for another sign.

“ _Enough!_ ” 

The word was like a shockwave, vibrating right through his body, stunning the breath and movement right out of him. He froze in place. All the panicked energy that had been boiling out of him somehow stilled for a single moment.

Geralt blinked.

The room.

It wasn’t a dungeon.

It wasn’t even _close_ to a dungeon.

He was standing in a lavish bedroom, halfway across the room from the largest bed he’d ever seen. Debris from broken furniture and decorative china was scattered around, and a fire crackled in the enormous wolf’s head fireplace. 

At the far end of the room, next to the bed, stood Dracula and Alucard. Both of them stood with their bodies tensed and faces drawn down into worried frowns.

A little more sense leaked into Geralt’s head, and he closed his eyes and groaned.

He was in Dracula’s bedroom in the Castle. It had been a couple of weeks and change since they’d all returned from Alucard’s tower in Castlevania City. Both Alucard and Dracula had been staying close to Kaer Morhen as Geralt began the slow, difficult process of fully recovering from his near-death experience. 

They had all gone to bed together last night after spending several hours enjoying each other’s company. 

He’d had a nightmare. 

That whole experience, the torture and the worry and the _pain_. It was a _gods forsaken nightmare_.

Gods, he’d just attacked his lovers.

Geralt groaned again and covered his face with his hands, dismissing his shield. Adrenaline still surged through him, making his heart beat like thunder and his breath come out in short, harsh pants. It was hard to stand up, he felt so weak. Shaky, even. It had to be leftovers from his recent injuries. He’d been healed by Dracula, sure, but the damage had been so intense and the recovery so long that he was still struggling to regain his stamina. Whatever the reason, he couldn’t find the strength to stand up any longer. 

He sank down to his knees, suddenly cold and sweaty, and still kicking himself with a vengeance for being so fucking stupid. How could he have fucking forgotten where he was?

“Geralt?” Alucard was half naked, dressed only in soft, grey sleep pants that he’d donned sometime during the night, as was his habit. His hair fell loose and messy over his shoulders and down to the base of his back. He looked at Geralt in concern as he shifted minutely towards him. 

Dracula was beautiful as ever, pale and powerful; he stood unabashed and unashamed of his nakedness as he watched Geralt with banked coal red eyes. As Alucard moved forward, Dracula kept back. He slowly opened and closed his hands at his sides, flexing his claws.

The burning blood scent of Dracula’s power was heavy in the room, echoing what Geralt sensed in his dream. He remembered the smell of his own seared flesh and this wasn’t it. No matter what his miserable dreams mixed with memories told him. 

He just had to keep reminding himself that until his body caught up with what his brain knew. A shudder ripped through him as he struggled with it.

“I’m so sorry,” Geralt whispered. His voice was as rough as gravel. He rubbed his face and tried to calm his heart down. It was pounding so hard that it felt like his body was throbbing with it. “I’m so very sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

This was why witchers were a gods-be-damned liability. He’d been pretty good with his nightmares, overall, especially the last year or two. They showed up from time to time, but he’d always been able to drag himself back to consciousness before doing any real damage. 

It was easier to feel safe around Dracula and Alucard. No matter what he did, they could survive it. It let him sleep easier knowing that. But this proved that _easier_ wasn’t _easy_. Maybe it was the pain of his recent near-death that had brought back shit that was better left forgotten. Maybe it was just shitty luck. But at least some part of a million terrible memories had caught up to him in his sleep, reminding him of all he’d endured. 

To Dracula and Alucard’s detriment. 

Geralt rubbed at his face, tasting the salt of terror-sweat on his skin. Gods, but his nose was still full of the scent of his own burning flesh, and he trembled with the remembered feel of melted skin peeling off and sticking to the pokers. 

He shuddered.

“Alucard,” he answered. He was weirdly surprised by how hoarse he sounded.

“Oh, you are awake.” Alucard breathed a sigh of relief and started making his way towards Geralt faster. Geralt cringed at the sight of his bare feet walking over the crushed pottery and splinters of wood.

“Your feet,” he said softly, distressed that his fuckup might cause even more damage.

Alucard didn’t even pause. All Geralt could do was stare at those bare feet as they approached, until Alucard was kneeling down beside him.

“Are you all right?” Alucard asked. He crouched down low, and non-threatening, letting Geralt’s head be higher than his. For such a tall man, Alucard sure could fold himself into a tiny shape. 

A bitter laugh worked its way out of Geralt’s throat. “I should be asking you that.”

He pressed his eyes closed and hung his head, one hand pulling at his hair. Dracula and Alucard didn’t deserve this.

Alucard laid his hand between Geralt’s shoulder blades.

Geralt swayed into the touch, but couldn’t quite reach out yet. It was a damn blessing that Alucard and Dracula were so hard to hurt, and that both of them had their own ways and methods for avoiding damage as well as the ability to heal extremely rapidly. This was why before he met them, Geralt tried to never sleep with regular humans. There was no telling when some half remembered fight would come back to him in the middle of the night and, well, do _this_. 

This wasn’t the first time that Alucard had needed to dodge Geralt’s mostly-asleep danger reactions, but it was the first time that Geralt hadn’t very promptly woken up. This time, Dracula had to shout at him. He’d used the power of his voice to snap Geralt back into reality.

Geralt looked up to Dracula through his lashes, suddenly afraid of what reaction he’d earned. He didn’t for a moment think that Dracula would harm him, but he was more than a little concerned that he’d fucked things up somehow. Maybe made Dracula upset. After all, Geralt had attacked them both. If his foggy perception of what had happened was even vaguely close to reality, he’d probably gotten at least a couple hits in on them both.

Despite his nudity, Dracula was cloaked in darkness; there were shadows crawling over his hands and creeping up his forearms, ebbing like waves up and down his body. Small tendrils separated and dripped like thick blood to the ground where they roiled and shifted around his naked feet. There was something almost barbaric in how he looked. Bare and powerful, yet pale and still. His brows were furrowed and his eyes glowed. There was a tightness at his jaw.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said softly to him. The ache in his chest had gotten worse, and it felt like there was a vast weight crushing down on him. Whatever was going on with Dracula, it was his fault. 

“What were you dreaming of?” Dracula asked. 

The shadows under his feet surged out like a wave, forming tiny, toothy mouths and devouring the crushed pieces of pottery with small slurping, crunching noises. Geralt watched in morbid fascination as the twisted, tiny jaws crushed the debris into dust and gobbled it up. Long, prehensile tongues licked up whatever the teeth missed.

Shudders rippled up Geralt’s spine and he looked down at his hands. Not because of Dracula’s demonic nature -- he’d long since lost any disquiet about that -- more because of the memory of the dream.

“It was a mishmash,” Geralt croaked. “Back when Ciri was a little girl. Someone wanted her, and Yen and I had to stop them. That happened a lot. She’s a princess, you know, and people wanted control over that.” 

He shook his head. He was stalling, he knew. Gods, he didn’t want to relive any of that. At the same time he almost couldn’t stop talking, like the words were bubbling out of him. No one had ever really asked about his nightmares before, and it was a painful relief to be able to say something. 

“And I have a stupid habit of getting involved in shit I never should. _Politics_.” He waved a hand weakly, and then let it drop like a stone to his thigh. “Sometimes that means I get strung up for my troubles. I dreamed about one of those times, with a side of questions about little Ciri on the run.”

She’d been so fragile when she was younger. So susceptible to danger and exploitation and a thousand other hazards of living, all made worse by the fact of her blood and even because of Geralt’s occupation. 

“It was a bad time,” Geralt finished lamely. He felt achy and tired even as the leftovers of the adrenaline still buzzed through his body, giving him the strangest combination of both exhausted and ready for battle.

“Are they dead?” Dracula asked. The shadows seeped into the floor and left his whole body stunningly naked again; his firm stomach and chest were visible to the room and shifted gently with each breath he took. The brazen nonchalance of his bare body left Geralt feeling strangely vulnerable.

Geralt shrugged. “I have no idea. I didn’t get names of the men who questioned me, and barely escaped. Just another set of interchangeable bastards. The man in charge, yeah. It took me a while to heal after that, lots of burns and bones that had to be rebroken to heal straight. Then I went back and killed the guy in charge. Had to, to stop the hit on me. But he just gave out the orders. He’d have never sullied himself to actually get involved with the questioning. After killing my way through their base to get to him…” He shook his head. “I’ve no idea if one of the dozens of people that I went through were the ones who tortured me. Probably. Maybe.”

He shrugged again. That was just life. If it wasn’t one sadist with a paycheck, it was another. They were as plentiful as the people willing to hire them. It was more important to kill the ones bankrolling the whole affair. 

“Do you have anything of --” Before Dracula could finish, he was interrupted by Alucard making a grumpy, warning noise.

“It’s not the time to try and track down Geralt’s oppressors.” Alucard sounded incredibly chiding, so much Geralt was pulled from his thoughts to stare at him.

The younger vampire was glaring up at his father, brows furrowed and lips turned down in a disapproving frown. When Alucard noticed Geralt was looking at him, he instantly smoothed his face. The frown fell away like it had never even been there.

“Yes?” he asked gently, as if Geralt was some kind of chick that had fallen out of its nest.

Geralt had to snort in amusement, but even that was a half hearted thing.

“Gods,” he said helplessly. “I love you.”

Alucard, oddly enough, blushed crimson red. Even the tips of his ears pinked up.

“I love you, too,” he whispered back.

Now Geralt sagged into him, resting his forehead on Alucard’s shoulder. It was such a relief to have someone there to hold him, someone who he cared about and who cared for him in return. He took a deep breath, filling his nose with the cold frost that was part of Alucard’s scent. 

Finally, his heart had started to slow to something resembling a reasonable beat. 

Another little wave of guilt crashed over him. He’d ruined their quiet sleep time with his pointless nightmares.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked softly into Alucard’s shoulder.

“No.” The answer came fast and definitive.

A little more tension left him and he nodded. That was good. 

The sudden lack of adrenaline in his system left him feeling a little shivery. Goosebumps trailed up his arms and Geralt thought about the bed. As nice as the warm blankets sounded, he wasn’t sure he wanted to lay down just yet. He didn’t want to close his eyes and see that dungeon again.

“You two look cold,” Dracula said, sounding almost awkward. “Wouldn’t the baths be a better place for this?” He paused. “Warmer?”

Baths. That was a good idea. Geralt nodded, but didn’t want to pull away from Alucard just yet. “Alright.”

“Father?” 

Geralt could feel Alucard looking at Dracula, but he didn’t feel like following his example. There was something about Dracula’s tension that he didn’t like, something too menacing for his badly shaken nerves. It didn’t seem likely that Dracula was angry at him. That didn’t sound right. But a tiny, little part of him couldn’t help but think it was his fault regardless. 

He closed his eyes and let himself lean into Alucard’s strength. He’d get up in a minute and force himself to be strong and calm again. It was just such a relief to have someone else to lean on for a moment. 

He didn’t notice when the world fell away around them, but he did notice the scent of the air changing suddenly. Instead of the dry heat of the bedroom, they were surrounded by moisture and the faint aroma of minerals. 

His knees were resting against a much warmer stone. Heat radiated off the smooth surface. He put his hand down, spreading it on the floor beside him. There was something very comforting in the soft heat and the smoothness of the stone.

“That is so damn useful,” he said. The comment was a distraction, really. Something to make him stop thinking about the terrible things still circling in his head. 

It utterly failed. 

He pressed his face harder into Alucard’s shoulder. As good as it felt, Geralt knew he couldn’t stay this way forever. Or at all. He should get up and do… something. It was just a stupid dream. But it brought up the memories of a hundred different kinds of pain. Fear and worry. Hopelessness and loss. 

Geralt took a breath. 

Reluctantly, he lifted his head up and looked over to where Dracula was standing a few feet away from them. That look seemed to prod Dracula into moving; he turned to the water and stepped in. Geralt couldn’t help but be a bit distracted at the sight of the muscles of his buttocks and back working as me moved, before he submerged into the murky waters completely. 

The water swallowed him up completely, leaving barely a ripple in his wake.

That action was so unusual that it made Geralt tilt his head a little in confusion. He’d expected Dracula to wait for them, or maybe settle into one of the built in benches along the pool wall. 

“...Should we go in?” Geralt asked quietly, suddenly unsure of what to do. His voice still sounded like he’d been gargling gravel, but at the very least his heart rate had gone back to its usual, steady beat.

There was a very long moment as Alucard clearly debated on how to answer that question. Long enough that Geralt turned to look at him with mounting concern and dismay. 

“I can go --” Geralt started.

“No,” Alucard interrupted him, and shook his head. “No, that wouldn’t help either of you.”

They waited another minute in silence, and that feeling of guilt came back to bite Geralt in the ass. 

There was still no sign of Dracula. The water was disturbingly still, with barely a ripple in sight.

Geralt couldn’t leave things as they were. It took more effort than he thought possible, but he dragged himself up to standing and headed for the pool. Alucard took a brief moment to slip off his sleeping pants, and then he was at Geralt’s side.

Even though the bath was darker and murkier than normal, Geralt didn’t even pause at the water’s edge. He stepped right in. As he moved, his eyes flickered over the surface of the water, looking for any sign of Dracula. There was none. 

Whatever strength and motivation took him that far utterly fled him. He should go sit. Maybe do something. Instead, he ended up just standing there, hip deep in hot water and waiting. For Dracula, maybe. Or maybe just waiting to get some resolve back. 

After a moment, Alucard huffed in irritation and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. He steered Geralt towards the bench lining the pool wall and urged him to sit.

“Father will join us when he’s calmed. Best not to tempt fate and stand waiting for him like bait,” Alucard said dryly. He slid into the seat next to Geralt and wrapped an arm around his waist.

The choice of wording made Geralt huff in laughter and shake his head. _Bait_. He was reminded of some of the stationary fishing poles set up in Skellige. Or the buoys that were set up with a baited hook hanging off of it. Lazy man’s fishing, he’d been told. 

That bit of humor was short-lived, though, and Geralt sank a little in place, weighed down by nightmares and Dracula’s upset. Alucard just pulled him a little closer, and started rubbing up and down his arms, getting him wet and warming him up at the same time.

The water rippled suddenly and a dark head emerged. Dracula’s hair was slicked down to his face and neck, sticking to his skin as he straightened out. As his chest became visible again, water sluiced down over his hard muscles. He had more color now; there was a little bit of pink to his skin from the heat.

As soon as he was in range, Geralt looked up to catch his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t mean to say things that would upset you. We don’t need to talk about it.”

Dracula made a low growling sound. The water around him rippled violently with the noise before calming just as suddenly.

“I’m not upset,” Dracula said, pushing closer through the water.

Geralt stared at him flatly. His disbelief warred with his certain knowledge that Dracula would never lie to him, not even to make him feel better about something. He glanced down at the water and watched the little ripples flow around them. 

“You’re _something_ ,” Geralt said very quietly. “If not upset, then what?”

“I want to track down the people who hurt you and _harm_ them.”

Dracula was close enough that Geralt could feel the water shift against his legs. He really wanted his lover to touch him right then.

As if reading his mind, Dracula moved that tiny bit closer, wrapped his hand around the back of Geralt’s neck, and pulled him into a short, fierce kiss. It ended just as suddenly as it had begun.

“You are mine now,” Dracula said right into Geralt’s lips. “Nobody can have you but us.” 

Dracula kissed Geralt again, slower but no less firm. It was gentler than usual, less the precursor to sex and more a leisurely caress. 

Geralt sighed into it and pressed closer, unbelievably grateful for the touch, for the firm grip on his neck and the soft slide of lips against his. He wrapped his arms around Dracula and urged him in closer. 

Rather than embracing him as Geralt expected, Dracula grabbed him by the waist, lifted him up, and then shifted them around so that Geralt was seated sideways on his lap. Almost like he was cradling him. Alucard pressed into them both, resting snugly against Geralt’s back and Dracula’s side. One arm snaked around Geralt’s waist and hugged him tight and Alucard nosed into the side of Geralt’s neck. Dracula slipped an arm around Alucard’s shoulder and pressed them all together a little tighter. 

For a moment Geralt couldn’t breathe. The way they held him, wrapped up tight in their arms, made him feel fragile and safe at the same time. His eyes stung for a moment, and he took a massive shuddering breath. There was an ache in his chest, a happy nearly-painful tightening, and he leaned hard into them both. One of his arms was somewhat crushed between his and Dracula’s body, but with the other he was able to reach up and cling to Dracula’s shoulder. 

Dracula rubbed his cheek into Geralt’s hair and growled quietly. Now that Geralt knew that dissatisfaction wasn’t directed towards him, he wasn’t bothered by it at all. A little part of him curled up in pleasure at it, but mostly he just felt safe. Dracula and Alucard were there with him, and nothing could harm him while he was in their arms.

A few minutes passed, and Geralt slowly melted further into their embrace. 

But as the worry and tension went away, the memories came back to bite him again. 

“Torture isn’t like other pain,” he said quietly, suddenly needing to get it out. To tell _someone_ , even if they wouldn’t really get it. “Pain comes with the Path. Monsters aren’t gentle, after all, and we all get injured. But torture is just as much about breaking you as it is hurting you. They make it…” He swallowed hard, and it felt like he had a ball of wire stuck right in his throat. “Some of them just like to hurt you. But the bad ones, the ones that really know their stuff. They mess with your head, you know?”

Dracula just kept up his rubbing on Geralt’s head, but Alucard squeezed him tight and buried his face into the hinge of Geralt’s jaw.

“I know,” Alucard said. The words were so soft they were barely a whisper, and it took Geralt a moment to realize the implication.

The way he said it wasn’t like he was telling them that he understood what happened on an intellectual level. Alucard was saying he _knew_. From experience.

“What.” Dracula’s voice was quiet and deadly, and Geralt could feel the barest tickle of claws on the hand on his leg. 

Alucard just nuzzled further in to Geralt’s jaw, nearly hiding himself in Geralt’s white hair. 

Pain, bright and sharp, stabbed into Geralt’s chest as he thought about Alucard subjected to what he himself had been through. He grabbed ahold of the hand on his waist and squeezed. There wasn’t anything he could do to make the situation better. He knew that from his own life.

Mixed in with that hurt and need to comfort was the strangest sense of camaraderie. Alucard _knew_.

“It was a long time ago,” Alucard said quietly. “Centuries. They are all dead.”

Dracula let out a deep breath, something just shy of a hiss or a snarl, but his body relaxed a little after. He held Alucard tight to them. There was a prickle of energy around them, and Geralt could actually feel the frustration and smoldering rage radiating off of Dracula, low and subdued. 

The revelation that Alucard knew exactly what Geralt was feeling was still something of a shock to his system. Part of him thought that he shouldn’t be so surprised. Alucard was a warrior, and had been for a thousand years. Some truly terrible things were bound to happen in that time. It was simple probability. Another part of him was still reeling from the sense of understanding. And with someone who wasn’t a witcher, on top of that. 

Eskel, Lambert, Vesemir… they all knew the types of things that happened out on the Path. They’d all felt it to some degree. Hell, Vesemir had even made a point of having classes on torture back when he’d still been teaching trainees. They’d all learned several different methods of torture, how to administer it, and more importantly, what could be done to endure it. They had some training in withstanding questioning, but it was minimal. Their standard pain dampening mutations took care of a lot of issues and, really, why might a witcher care to withhold information? Just tell it and be done. Even with that in mind, Vesemir was a thorough teacher. He’d taught them everything he knew, for all the good it would do.

Geralt squeezed Alucard’s hand tight, and tucked his head under Dracula’s chin. Gods, he’d been out on the Path for nearly a hundred years. The sheer number of injuries he’d taken in that time was beyond counting. Beatings, too. Plus the best efforts of amateur torturers as well. But run-ins with true professional inquisitors were still a list he could count out on one hand. Each time was seared into his memory.

“It’s always a risk,” he said quietly. “Fight long enough, and someone, somewhere will want to…” Geralt couldn’t finish the sentence. He wasn’t even sure how to. He shook his head. “I think burns are my least favorite.”

“Burns,” Dracula repeated, voice low and the rumble thick in his throat. The water churned. Dark spots appeared in the murky water and spread as black shapes twisted and turned under the surface.

Geralt nodded, lost a little in the memory of it. “Cuts and breaks are at least a clean pain. Burns…” He thought about the smell of his own cooking flesh, and the feel of his own skin melting and flaking off. He remembered the boils that swelled up later and how damn long they took to heal even with his mutations.

The scent of Dracula’s burning power was all around him, chased by a hint of Alucard’s biting cold. Now that the initial panic of his nightmare had fled those scents had gone back to being the solid comfort that they usually were. Especially Dracula’s. The flavor of soot and fresh sappy wood charred down to coals was more present and the blood in his scent always smelled fresh. Torture burns always smelled of badly cooking meat, rancid and heavy.

Geralt leaned into the differences, taking a heavy, slow breath to further ground himself in the present.

Dracula wouldn’t hurt him. He was safe here.

“Are easy,” Dracula said suddenly. “A lot of long lasting pain and low risk of killing the victim.” His hands were now tipped with claws, Geralt could feel them prickle against his skin.

A small, bitter laugh worked its way out of Geralt’s throat. “Yes. Not very sophisticated. Really, I should be grateful. I’ve never had the truly bad stuff done to me. Flaying, at least not on a large scale. That’s nasty stuff. That’s what Steingard was good at, the guy who had Eskel last year? Part of his little _process_ was flaying a witcher alive. Mad Kiyan didn’t have a single inch of skin left on him when I found him. Just bone, gristle, and muscle.” He shuddered again at the thought of it. “I could have had it a lot worse.”

“Just because somebody else had it worse doesn’t mean what happened to you doesn’t matter.” Alucard said gently, running his wet hands through Geralt’s hair. The warmth of the bath was slowly working into his body, relaxing his muscles and chasing the remembered ache away from his bones.

“But it doesn’t really matter,” Geralt said, twisting his head a little to look at Alucard in mild confusion. He shook his head minutely as he struggled to find the right way to explain it. “To be avoided, sure, but this stuff happens. It’s inevitable.” 

“If it doesn’t matter, why do you dream of it?” Alucard sounded gentle, as if he was waiting for Geralt to catch up.

“Weakness.” Geralt turned his head back into Dracula’s neck, curling inward. His cheeks burned a little with shame, but he didn’t think it right to hide this from his lovers. He trusted them with the worst parts of himself, this included. 

Witchers endured. Some little bit of pain and fear that happened years ago shouldn’t still bother him so much. 

“Do you consider yourself weak? Truly?” Alucard couldn’t sound more disbelieving if he tried.

Geralt swallowed hard and tried to focus on Dracula’s heartbeat thrumming steadily against his skin. The warm skin against his was soothing in more ways than he could count, and knowing that his lovers were there set something at ease inside of him. He kept that in mind as he forced the upset back and tried to answer in some way that was vaguely sane. 

“In general? No.” He shook his head. “But I’m not perfect. Something as paltry as a little pain shouldn’t stay with me so long.” Pain, yes, and the feeling of helplessness and hopelessness that went with it. The terrifying lack of control and the sheer futility of every action. “Every witcher goes through this at one point or another. More often if we’re unlucky. Best thing to do is just forget it.”

“So what would be perfect for you? A man that feels nothing, who is affected by nothing?” Alucard’s words pressed on, but his hand was still gentle against the back of Geralt’s head.

“That’s what witchers are supposed to be,” Geralt answered dryly. 

Alucard hummed.

“If a man feels nothing, he cannot love.”

“I’ve always been an aberration on that front. A witcher who cares so much.” Geralt harrumphed and his mouth twisted into a small frown. 

That made Dracula laugh, the sound vibrating right through his chest.

“Show me a witcher that feels nothing, that is unaffected by everything that has ever happened to them.” Dracula shifted his hold on Geralt, making Geralt look at him. “Is Vesemir unaffected? Is Lambert? Is Eskel?”

A glib answer rested right on the tip of his tongue, but Geralt paused to really think about it. 

Vesemir was cold oftentimes, and completely untouched by the suffering of those not in his charge. He very well embodied a witcher’s neutrality. But Geralt knew for a fact that he cared quite a lot about the rest of the Wolf witchers, and even extended that rough sort of concern for anyone who wandered through the keep. 

Lambert was all fire and anger, piss and vinegar. For all his issues and sharp tongue, he was a steadfast friend. His actions proved his feelings far more than his words ever did. 

And Eskel. Even though Eskel kept himself aloof and distant from most people, he cared deeply, quietly, for those closest to him. He was more likely to toil hard in the background to make sure that life moved smoothly for all around him than draw attention to himself or his concern.

Geralt could not honestly say that any of them didn't care in some way. At the same time, he knew very well that they all were far more callous than what the average human appeared to be. They killed brutally, without remorse, and without hesitation. They hunted the world, decimating humans and monsters alike, murdering whoever got in their way and whatever creature was required for a contract. 

It was a strange balance, and Geralt was never sure if it was due to their training or the mutations. Honestly, he thought it was both. Other witchers seemed to share that strange dichotomy as well. 

“No, they’re not. But we aren’t like humans either. And Wolf witchers are… kinder than most.”

“So a proper witcher is something that doesn’t really exist is what you are saying?” Dracula asked, his eyebrows high.

Geralt shook his head. “No one is the perfect ideal of what they are. They can only aspire to be so. And I in particular am… broken in this regard.”

“If nobody can be perfect, that means everybody is weak.” Dracula pressed. “Is that what you really believe?”

“Just because someone has a weakness, or has moments of weakness, that doesn’t make them a weak person. It just means they have things they are still working on.” Geralt pressed his face into Dracula’s neck. 

He didn’t know how to explain it. Yes, he’d made mistakes, he was weak sometimes, everyone was. But little flaws like this only festered and ended with death. Every chink in a witchers armor was another distraction, another way to die slowly, horribly. Maybe it was alright for humans to feel more, to have the leisure to allow their scars to define their time, but witchers had no such option. Not really. They could rest in safety at their home keep in the winter time, but out on the Path there was no room for instability. 

“Tell me what you mean,” he said finally, tired of the debate. “I don’t understand.”

“You hold yourself to an impossible ideal that has never been achieved before and was most probably invented as a way to instill a sense of inferiority in students. If you really were unaffected and unfeeling, you wouldn’t care about anything enough to bother trying to help. That time the Order was hunting you down? You wouldn’t have bothered to draw the pursuit away from the towns. You would have let me come there, into the middle of a town, and slaughter everything in sight because that would have been the more efficient choice. That time, months ago, when you called to me for company, you wouldn’t have bothered to look for the girls kidnapped by slavers. You would have only killed the wraith and left in search of another contract, leaving those children to their grim fate.” Dracula’s voice was a low rumble that sent shivers down his back. “Would you have really looked up to such a man if you had met him?” Dracula’s eyes were burning. “I know I wouldn’t.”

Geralt’s eyes stung and his throat hurt. 

“A man that feels nothing can not love,” Alucard said gently. “And can not be loved in turn, because one cannot love nothingness.”

A hot tear spilled down Geralt’s cheek and he swallowed painfully. “It fucking hurts, though,” he said softly. 

He closed his eyes and took a short breath. A shudder raced through him as he thought about the hundred thousand ways his caring had ended in nothing but heartache. The countless times he’d stuck his nose in, only to have things end in disaster anyways. Sometimes things turned out for the better, it was true. But more often than he wanted to think about, everything still went to shit, and he was stuck paying a very painful, very personal price. 

“Then share that pain with me, with us,” Alucard whispered, pressing his forehead to Geralt’s temple. “Clean the wound and let it heal instead of hiding it away until it festers.”

Several more hot tears burned down Geralt’s cheeks, and his nose felt stuffy and swollen. He grabbed for the arms around him, pulling them in tighter, urging them all closer together. He couldn’t look at them, though. It was too much. He just tucked his head down and tried to stay as quiet as possible while he wept, shivering in place in their arms.

Dracula and Alucard pressed in on him, squeezing him between them, and the scent of their power cut through the soft perfumes of the baths. It wrapped around him like a blanket, and he could feel how their energy, their presence flowed out over his skin. 

He wasn’t quite sure how long they stayed that way. Soon enough, the tears came to an end, and Geralt was left feeling tired and empty. Lighter, as well, like he’d been scraped out on the inside of all the hurt that had been eating at him.

He sniffed and rubbed his face, scrubbing the last little bit of tears out of his eyes. Some part of him wanted to apologize for the display, or maybe for needing their help.

“Sorry,” he said roughly, unable to stop himself, even though he _knew_ that he didn’t need to say it, and that Dracula and Alucard wouldn’t think it necessary. 

“Never be sorry for letting us into your life,” Alucard murmured, running his hand in slow movements up and down Geralt’s back. 

After a moment, he wrapped his hand around Geralt’s wrist and pulled it out of the water. “You are turning pruney.”

Geralt huffed in laughter. The sound was still a little shaky, but he felt genuinely amused at least. “Ahh, the disadvantages of being mortal,” he said with a smirk. “Do either of you suffer such humble troubles?”

“I am above it.” Dracula pulled his hand out of the water and showed Geralt the no longer clawed fingers. Of course, there was no sign of wrinkling caused by water.

Geralt twisted to look at Alucard questioningly.

Alucard looked a little sheepish when he pulled out his hand and showed it to them both.

“Only a little wrinkly,” he said.

Geralt shook his head and smiled. Then he sobered for just a moment, and looked down to the murky mineral water of the pool. It was back to being light and somewhat opaque, rather than black from Dracula’s power. There was no sense of that unsettling rage in the air either.

“So neither of you would… mind, if I told you about some of the things that happened to me?” he asked quietly. “Later. If it comes up.”

“I want to be part of your life,” Alucard murmured. “I want to _help_.”

Geralt looked to Dracula.

“Mostly I want to kill those that hurt you,” Dracula grumbled. “But that too.” He nodded towards Alucard.

That made Geralt smile, slow at first and then stretching into something wide and satisfied. “I get dibs on any murdering of people who torture me. Though I could be convinced to share.”

Dracula sighed.

“I suppose I can always get them after they’ve died.”

The deeply funny part of that was Geralt was certain Dracula was serious. He snickered a little to himself, and then pulled both Dracula and Alucard close for a second.

“Thank you,” Geralt said. 

Another thought occurred to him, and he squeezed them close a second time. “The same goes for me, you know? If either of you want to talk, I’m here for you.”

He hadn’t forgotten how Alucard said he’d been tortured too, centuries ago, and he knew for a fact that Dracula had his own painful past. One didn’t become the King of Hell because his life was all sunshine and roses.

“Good,” Dracula rumbled and reached to catch Geralt’s face in his hands. “You will do well remembering who you belong to.” He pulled Geralt closer. “Not random strangers, not your torturers.” He bent down until his lips were almost brushing Geralts. “Me.”

A shiver ran down Geralt’s spine and his body tightened up for a moment. He parted his lips and waited, teasing out the anticipation of the gesture. 

He wasn’t disappointed. Dracula never promised things he didn’t want to deliver. Geralt gave into the kiss, opening up under the press of lips and tongue, and inviting Dracula to deepen it and show him how he wanted Geralt. 

“Food,” Alucard said, his voice hiding mirth. “Food would probably help, too.”

Dracula pulled back from the kiss until his lips barely brushed Geralt’s. “I’m about to get my snack, yes,” he purred before diving back into kissing Geralt, licking into him with increasing hunger.

Geralt could hear Alucard snort in laughter and slap Dracula on the shoulder.

“Not you.” Alucard was clearly doing his best to sound stern but Geralt could hear that he was failing. “Geralt.”

Food was probably a good idea. Geralt was still trying to gain back the weight lost during his injury and recovery. Combined with the extra training he’d been doing, he was eating truly incredible amounts of food. 

But Dracula’s mouth was so damn good. Worth savoring, and just as satisfying as any meal. 

Geralt threaded a hand up into Dracula’s hair and let his eyes flutter closed. 

“Come on,” Alucard said. “Let’s get out of the baths and visit the kitchen at Kaer Morhen. I think there was some of Vesemir’s stew’s left.”

While Vesemir wasn’t a master chef by any means, he was rather good at a few homely dishes. Exceptionally good, actually. His stew in particular was something Geralt looked forward to. It was one of the reasons that all of the Wolf witchers made Vesemir do most of the cooking when they stayed over for the winter. They knew that Vesemir was the least likely to accidentally poison them all. 

Geralt’s stomach twisted uncomfortably, reminding him that it had been hours since he’d last eaten. 

With intense reluctance, he pulled back from the kiss and sighed. He looked up into Dracula’s beautiful, burning eyes and smiled a little sheepishly. “Food… might not be a bad plan.”

Then his stomach _growled_.

Alucard’s eyes widened and then he made a strange half snort. Then another. Then he started giggling. The sound was barely covered by the hand he used to cover his mouth.

Geralt snickered along with him, and shook his head ruefully. “Betrayed by my own body,” he mock-complained. “I guess eating might be a little higher on the To Do list.”

Dracula’s eyes crinkled in amusement and he laid one more swift peck on Geralt’s mouth. “We’ll resume the kissing after, then. Come,” he said, standing up and lifting Geralt right out of the water with him. “It seems we have a hungry witcher to feed.” The red in his eyes sparked brilliantly. “And then tuck him back into bed.”

Geralt’s skin prickled with anticipation, and he licked his lips. He was still pressed up against Dracula, and Alucard had followed them up to standing. Nothing would ever make the feeling of their hands on him grow old.

“Right. Food,” Geralt said, nodding, still more than a little distracted by the feeling of being pressed between his lovers. “We should do that.”

“Clothes,” Alucard said pointedly. He laid a gentle kiss on Geralt’s shoulder and then stepped out of the pool. “I, for one, do not wish to be transported directly to the kitchen without a stitch on me.”

For a moment Dracula looked cheated, like he’d been hoping for just that thing. 

Geralt laughed at them both, feeling lighter and freer than he had in a long while. He squirmed down out of Dracula’s arms until he was standing in the bath next to him, and then took hold of Dracula’s hand. 

“Come on,” he said, tugging at Dracula a little. “The sooner we’re done, the sooner we can go back to bed.”

That happy crinkling to Dracula’s eyes came back, and his lips twitched into a tiny, slightly hungry smile. “Bed sounds good,” he murmured with a wicked rumble to his sound.

“After we _eat_ ,” Alucard said. “And _get dressed_.”

“Maybe not in that order,” Geralt added with amusement. 

Dracula grumbled a little, but Geralt could tell it was at least half for show. 

“All right then,” Dracula said, leaning back against the lip of the pool. “We can’t leave our favorite witcher hungry, after all.”

Geralt grinned and climbed up out of the pool, pulling Dracula with him.

The End


End file.
